Clue?
by Butterfly Conlon
Summary: Oh, me! Oh, my! Jack has been murdered! Was it the kissing bandit with the hot lips in the washroom? Was it Spot with the slingshot in the bunkroom? Can you figure it out?
1. The Letter

CLUE?  
  
Note From Author: Yay! Clue is fun and now you can play along Newsie style! This is a story that I penned last year, but I just came across it again! Can you figure out who killed Jack? The Disclaimer: Parker Brothers owns the rights to Clue and the lovely folks at Disney own Newsies. "The Letter" and "The Murder" appear in the Clue board game instructions and I just spiced and added words that were proper to correlate with the story. The set up is all Parker Brother's, except the stories, which are mine. The only (one!) character I own is the kissing bandit. Enjoy!  
  
THE LETTER  
  
To be read in case of my disappearance…or demise.  
  
  
  
To whom it may concern:  
  
If you are reading this it means that what I have suspected it true—that the one who did in Jack has found me out. Which is why I had to put all this down for you to find. Aunt Pitty Pat, if you're the one reading this, and I suspect it is, you were right. You always told me my natural inquisitiveness would get me into trouble. This time, it may have well done me in, like somebody did Jack. What I found out when I was at his Lodging House, may be the very evidence the Bulls need to find out what happened to me and to solve the mystery, for I never did find out Who Killed Jack? In Which Room? And With Which Weapon?  
  
Sincerely  
  
Rusty Russel  
  
Queens Lodging House  
  
October 14, 1899 


	2. The Murder

THE MURDER  
  
I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I had been hinting at Jack for months at the Distribution Center, and he finally gave in and invited me to spend the weekend at his lodging house, the Manhattan newsboys Lodging House. I was thrilled! But it did not turn out to be the weekend I'd always dreamed of…  
  
I was the last guest to arrive, at around six Friday evening. By the time I had introduced myself to the others, unpacked and changed for dinner, and joined the other guests for sodas in the parlor, I'd already gotten a funny feeling about this weekend I had long dreamed of.  
  
Something was defiantly amiss. The other guests were all acting strange--, furtive and suspicious. While there was the usual idle chatter between this one and that one, they all seemed preoccupied. And, while Jack was the grandest chap and had a reputation for holding positively smashing parties, our host avoided all the other guests and spent time only with me. He wasn't himself…the loveable man I played cards with at the Distribution Center was nervous.  
  
Just before eight, when dinner would be served, Jack beckoned me into the hall.  
  
"A word in private, old chap…" He picked up a coil of Rope off the hat rack and nervously looped and re-looped it as he spoke.  
  
I was relieved when we had the chance to speak to him alone. "Right. Now will you tell me what the blazes is going on here, Jack? These friends of yours are about the rummiest bunch I've ever met. What gives?"  
  
He hesitated. I thought he would tell me what was going on. "Can't say, old man," he replied. "But I have my own suspicions, and you'd be a lifesaver if you'd keep your eyes and ears open and let me know what you can find out about my guests."  
  
"But they're YOUR friends, Jack, I've never met them before. What makes you suspicious?"  
  
"Well, haven't you wondered about their names? I mean, REALLY…they sound like persons under the influence! And they're not my friends…but I do have my reasons for asking them down. Here, take a look at these."  
  
He took a bulky envelope filled with headlines with newspaper clips from inside his jacket pocket and waited while I skimmed the headlines. If the people mentioned in the clips were Jack's colorful guests, they certainly had high profiles in the tabloids: a mysterious kissing bandit, a fraudulent enterprise, a con man, a dark secret, a secret affair, an attempted murder.  
  
I handed him the clippings. He put them back and patted his pocket. "I'll put these in a safe place after dinner. What do you say, old chap? Will you help me out?"  
  
I agreed to keep a watch on the other guests at the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House. For the weekend, and to let Jack know if I spotted anything of a suspicious nature. I told him I would collect clues and give him a written report of anything that looked "funny" before I left the Lodging House on Monday morning.  
  
"Thanks, old chap," Jack sighed, momentarily relieved. "You ARE a lifesaver." He patted me on the shoulder, and we walked in to dinner together.  
  
Saturday was pleasant enough…a bit of gambling in the morning, a positively hideous luncheon at the hands of Sarah, a few games of bridge after dinner, an early evening. I had picked up a few items of interest around the Lodging House—possible clues to the guests; mysterious behavior. And I couldn't forget those newspaper clippings…were they related to the clues I'd picked up?  
  
Sunday a few of the guests played poker before lunch. Another group visited Central Park and the gardens in the afternoon. Beers, another disastrous meal, several rounds of cards. All was quiet, until late that evening, which was to be our last at the Lodging House…and Jack's last, forever.  
  
I'd felt a bit queasy—I held Sarah completely responsible—and retired early. I has just fallen asleep over my book when I heard a terrific commotion below me. Raised voices…scuffling…followed by the sound of someone running.  
  
I ran downstairs and one of the other guests greeted me with the disastrous news: Jack had been killed!  
  
Those newspaper articles! The items I'd found around the mansion! Why, any of the guests could have done in Jack. There were motives and modi operandi in every room, for every Suspect. Poor chap: His suspicion had been well founded, after all. I shook myself back to reality and asked:  
  
"Who did it? Where? What was the Weapon?" No reply. The other guests had already disappeared down the hall.  
  
"All right," I mumbled. "The least I can do for jack is figure it out myself."  
  
But I never did. CAN YOU? 


	3. The Slingshot

THE SLINGSHOT  
  
What I found at the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House in the bunkroom…  
  
My first evening at the lodging house, I caught the fearless Brooklyn leader Spot Conlon banging his head against one of the posts of a set of bunk beds in the bunkroom.  
  
I had fancied that I could come up to the bunkroom for some peace and quiet, not for the commotion that was ensuing.  
  
I quietly entered the room, shutting the door behind me. I did slam the door rather loud, hoping that he would notice my presence and decease in this racket, yet he did not.  
  
I loudly cleared my throat.  
  
That did the trick. Old Spot quit banging his head to connect with my gaze, his eyes narrowed and a rather large welt beginning to form plum in the center of his forehead.  
  
"Forgive me," I said, "but I am just going to read my book."  
  
He said nothing in reply, only let his gaze follow me as I slid into an extra bunk. I propped my head against one of the pillows and opened my book to page thirty-five, where I had left off. Yet no sooner had I completed the first sentence, the loud banging started again once more.  
  
I do declare that I was quite irritated, and I placed my book on my chest. "Ex…excuse me!"  
  
The banging continued.  
  
"I declare! Sir, will you please stop banging your head! I wish to read!"  
  
The banging immediately subsided.  
  
I sighed contently and once again picked up my book, yet, the banging continued…again…  
  
Now the pounding was not only deferring my train of thought, it was starting to produce one splitting headache.  
  
I threw my book down on the bunk, and swung my legs over the side of it. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I hollered, "STOP!"  
  
The banging quite decreased.  
  
Sighing, I rose from the bunk and occupied one that was across from Spot, whom now had a fantastic purple bruise forming.  
  
"May I ask, if I may, why you are banging you head against the post of a bunk bed?" I inquired.  
  
Spot, looking very dazed—for his head lolled from one side to the other and his eyes were doing circles—spoke. "Angah management," he slurred.  
  
I was taken aback. "Anger management?" Then I realized the newspaper clipping. It fit perfectly.  
  
He disorderly nodded his head. "Yeah…dey makin' me take angah management. Dey say I'se too angry. Too angry cause I nearly killed Petey when I'se soaked 'em. Too angry. Dey want me ta control me anger. But I can. I'se tryin', dough. Dat's why I'se bangin' me head."  
  
I raised an eyebrow, looking at how pathetic he looked with his eyes rolling around in his head and that incredible lump on his forehead.  
  
"Too angry, dey say. My angah nevah wouldah been cured if it wouldn't have been foah Jacky-boy. Jacky-boy told ta bulls dat it was me who soaked Petey. Jacky-boy told 'em. T'anks ta 'im, dey's getting' me ta control me angah. T'anks ta Jacky-boy." It was then that the banging of the head must to got to Spot, for he quit blacked out, his eyes rolling up into his head and a bizarre smile on his face. He fell back onto the bunk.  
  
I sighed and prepared to return to my book once more, when something he held in his grasp caught my attention.  
  
His slingshot.  
  
A loaded slingshot.  
  
"A slingshot?" I murmured as I rose off the bunk, collected my book, and exited the bunkroom.  
  
Spot Conlon had been incomprehensible. But I figured that it was Jack that had ratted out Spot for his own sake when he beat that fellow newsie Petey to within one inch of his life. Spot would have ended with a lifetime at the House of Refuge, it a few strings had not been pulled.  
  
Or at least the newspaper clipping had said.  
  
But why would Spot want to be chums with Jack again? And why would he want to spend the weekend with him in the Lodging House.  
  
And why did he have a loaded slingshot? 


	4. The Knife

THE KNIFE  
  
What I found in the kitchen…  
  
I was at my wit's end looking for a nice, quiet place to simply read my book, when I was overcome with terrible pangs of hunger.  
  
Now you see, Sarah Jacobs was a guest, it was just that there was no one else to cook and she had so gratefully said yes (contrary to belief, there is a small kitchen in the Lodging House, although it is very rarely used, save the newsies who like to take their lady friends back there to get "better acquainted" as you might say.)  
  
Yet, how do I say this, Sarah was a rather horrid cook. I had gotten ill over the, oh what can I call it besides odious mush that she served us and nearly got food poisoning.  
  
So, you could see my natural fear of eating any of the meals that Sarah prepared. As I stood outside the door to the kitchen, clutching my book to my chest, I scoured my mind for what on earth there was to eat that she didn't have to prepare.  
  
The only thing that came to mind was…  
  
"Sarah?" I cautiously asked, lightly rapping on the door.  
  
I heard the immense clatter of pots and pans falling to the ground, that which made me wince, and the harried voice reply, "What? What do you want?"  
  
I slowly pushed open the door and peeked my head inside. What I saw astounded me. The kitchen looked like a tornado had ripped threw it. Pots and pans were scattered everywhere. Batter and sauce was splattered all over the walls, the counter, even on the cook in question herself.  
  
I cleared my throat. "Sarah, do you have any…?"  
  
But I was cut short, when Sarah spun around and with a mighty heave, accompanied by an ear splitting scream, threw one of the pots she had in her hand in my direction. I let out a yelp and quickly shut the door, only to hear the thud of the pot impacting the door and the clatter of it falling to the floor.  
  
I let out a low whistle. This girl needed some serious help.  
  
Cautiously opening the door once more, I gathered my courage and stepped inside (nearly slipping on a puddle of sauce on the floor,) shutting the door behind me.  
  
I let my eyes wander the room. "Sarah, what the bloody happened in here!"  
  
Sarah's narrowed eyes locked on mine. "Food! That's what happened, food!" she screamed, having yet another pot at my head. Lucky me I ducked just in time.  
  
Right. I took a deep breath, "Sarah, do you have any ice?"  
  
She let out a high-pitched giggle. "Ice? Ice? Go to one of the blasted lakes in Central Park when it is cold out and find yourself some ruddy ice!"  
  
I raised an eyebrow as I slowly backed away to the door. Perhaps I should just leave Sarah alone and go to Tibby's to find some food…  
  
My hand reached the knob as I heard her low voice say, "Tell me. Did you see them? Did you see them?"  
  
"See who?" I inquired, turning around. Yet, I was cut short by a holler ripping out of my throat.  
  
"What?" Sarah asked nonchalantly.  
  
"What? What? You're holding a bloody knife in your hand?" I cried.  
  
Sarah brought the rather large butcher's knife she held in her hand to her face. She ran her finger over the edges, making it gleam in the sun's rays.  
  
"Oh, don't be silly," she laughed. "This is for cutting the food. Why? What did you think I was going to use it for?"  
  
I held back what I desperately wished to say. "Uh, nothing," I stammered, flattening myself against the door.  
  
Sarah locked gazes with me and stood so she was a mere inch away from me, the knife nearly touching my nose. "You never answered my question. Did you see them?"  
  
"Who?" I squeaked.  
  
"Jack and that whore!" she bellowed, spinning around and heaving the knife so it stuck in one of the cabinet doors.  
  
"What whore?" I stammered, my knees now quite shaking.  
  
"Oh, you know!" she cried. "The one that is a guest here for the weekend. Josie whatever-the-hell-her-name-is. Jack and she have been kissing like dogs in heat all over this damn building!"  
  
Keeping my wide eyes on Sarah, I used my left hand to desperately feel for the knob.  
  
Sarah strolled over to the cabinet, which harbored the knife and with a quick thrust, pulled it out amidst crackling wood. Keeping her eyes on the knife, she stroked the blade, her voice low with fury. "It was perfect. He didn't want to exclude me, so he invites me here as cook. I have to slave away in the kitchen all day catering to his guests, and he then has all that free time to fill with that little hussy. Well, he isn't going to make a fool out of Sarah Jacobs. No way in hell he isn't."  
  
I believe my sweaty hand grasp the knob and swung the door open at precisely the same moment I saw Sarah's arm sling back with the knife in her grasp.  
  
The moment the door slammed behind me was the moment that the blade penetrated the door.  
  
"I think I will just eat at Tibby's, madam!" I called back to her, as I ran out of that horrid kitchen as fast as my legs would carry me.  
  
It was not until I reached Tibby's that I could fully calm my shaken nerves.  
  
As I held my book in my shaking grasp, my mind began to whirl.  
  
Sarah thinks that old Jack is cheating on her?  
  
A deranged girlfriend with a grudge against her boyfriend…and a rather large knife. 


	5. The Kissing Bandit

THE KISSING BANDIT  
  
What I found in the Washroom…  
  
Josie "Hot Lips" Hattleby was her name. And I though I had figured why she spent most of her time in the Washroom.  
  
At first I thought it had just been a severe case of indigestion all weekend, but it wasn't until I made a trip to the washroom that I discovered why.  
  
My intent had been to take a nice long bath to rid myself of the mud from the puddle that I had stepped into today at Central Park, yet, that was not the case.  
  
Hot Lips was leaned over one of the sinks, gazing into the mirror, applying yet another coat of ruby red lipstick to her full lips.  
  
Her being shocked me, and I gasp. That caused her to turn around, and when she saw me a sly grin crossed over her lips.  
  
"Why, hello, there," she said in a sultry voice.  
  
"Hello, madam," I replied, taking a few steps back and into the doorway to the bunkroom.  
  
A mock put crossed her mouth. "Why, honey, where are you going?"  
  
"To the parlor, to finish my book," I stammered.  
  
Her eyes locked on me as she closed the gap between us. "Why, honey," she smirked, wrapping her arms around my neck. "Why would you want to read a little old book when you could read me?"  
  
And with that, she pressed her lips against mine in a rather smoldering kiss.  
  
It was I that broke away, for instant recognition of her had burrowed into my head. From the newspaper clippings, she was…"You're the kissing bandit!"  
  
Hot Lips took a step back and curtseyed. "Hot Lips Hattleby is my name and kissin's my game! I've kissed everyone from the lowliest newsie to old Pulitzer himself!"  
  
I raised an eyebrow. "Pulitzer you say? Well, I daresay a job done quite well. They still haven't caught you since, have they?"  
  
Hot Lips shook her head, causing her burnt red spirals to bounce. "No, not yet, not ever! Cause I'm Hot Lips Hattleby, the Kissing Bandit! They'll never catch me. Not 'till I kiss every man in New York!"  
  
"Well, I say, now you can add me to your list. What's your tally now?"  
  
Hot Lips brought her index finger to her chin, as in thought. "Well, I'd say a good thousand, the ones that are still alive!"  
  
The kissing bandit laughed at her crack, yet it left me a bit apprehensive.  
  
"Alive?" I gulped.  
  
Hot Lips nodded. "Uh-huh. Hot Lips Hattleby with the hot lips, they say. My lips are so hot, they've been known to be too smoldering to some."  
  
"Too smoldering?" I inquired.  
  
She leaned in closer to me, her hot breath filling my ear. "Uh-huh. Too smoldering."  
  
She took a step back, once again focusing her gaze into the mirror. "Of course, Spot doesn't find them that smoldering. He's had lots of girls, ya know? Now Jack…" A dreamy smile crossed her face, as she once again began to reapply her devil red lipstick. "He always found them smoldering." Her smile fell and she once again connected gazes with me. "I guess he doesn't anymore."  
  
"Anymore?" I asked, intrigued.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Hot Lips replied, dropping the tube of lipstick into her purse. "Before he met Sarah, he thought I was the hottest lips around. But I guess not anymore…Well, honey, I gotta go."  
  
I caught her just as she was exiting the washroom. "Wait, how smoldering were your lips?"  
  
A gleam caught her eye and she leaned in closer to me. Her words sent chills down my spine. "As smoldering as cyanide."  
  
My eyes grew wide, and she chuckled at her little ruse.  
  
I watched as Hot Lips exited the washroom and disappeared out of the bunkroom.  
  
I thought of her words as I drew my bath.  
  
A girl with a seemly grudge against Jack, with lips as smoldering as cyanide?  
  
Cyanide?  
  
Just a ruse, I chided myself as I settled into the freezing tub of water. 


End file.
